


This Fireglow

by LoondeLune



Category: DCU (Comics), Teen Titans (Comics)
Genre: Alternate Universe - Modern Setting, Alternate Universe - No Powers, Developing Relationship, F/M, Fluff and Angst, Friends to Lovers, Kory is taller than Dick, Slow Burn
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2018-04-28
Updated: 2018-04-28
Packaged: 2019-04-29 01:26:50
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 3,539
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/14462154
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/LoondeLune/pseuds/LoondeLune
Summary: There are only two things now,The great black night scooped outAnd this fireglow.





	This Fireglow

His first memory is of a tightrope. Taut beneath his bare feet, a light pressure upon the sensitive flesh of his soles. Two hands holding his own, one in each, a reassuring presence that he would not fall. The rope was, at best, a mere three feet above the ground, but while on it he nearly stood at his father’s shoulders. He felt on top of the world.

His last memory is of falling.

* * *

He asks himself: What does fear taste like?

Like hot coals burning through tongue muscle creating a chasm of heat; like ash; like soot. Like acrid bile rising up in the back of the throat; a corrosive thing eating away at vocal chords; gnawing and gnashing, and you try to swallow it down again, just swallow down again.

He tastes fear for the first time when he learns to fly. Mother birds teach their little ones to take flight by first pushing them out of the nest. Baby birds plummet down to an unknown world, wondering for the first time _is this what death looks like?_ But then their wings catch on unseen currents of wind, filtering through bone and feather, and up high they go, Icarus to the Sun.

And when the trapeze is ripped from his hand and he's suspended in the air and he thinks _ah, so this is what it's like to fly._ He thinks he's falling, to the ground, to beyond the ground, whatever may lie there for a creature like him. But then there are hands in his and his joints snap as his arms are yanked tight and he's flying through the air once more.

He answers: Not this; life tastes like flight. 

* * *

He asks: What does dread taste like?

It does not taste like anything. Empty or rather like tar; a sinking, heavy weight in the gut. It is an insidious carnivore that eats at his intestines relinquishing a sickening blackness. His tongue sticks to the roof of his mouth uncomfortably dry and he tastes something unknown, something foul or rotten perhaps, akin to a scream. 

As he watches his parents fall the dread is overbearing and it's so overbearing he can barely breathe and it’s so overbearing he think he might throw up but he doesn't even know if there’s anything in his stomach.

He answers: Dread tastes wholly different than fear and somehow altogether the same.

He wished he could mar his tastebuds until they were rubbed raw and didn't exist, rip out his tongue and feel the absence in his mouth.

* * *

Dick wakes with a start, limbs flailing aimlessly. Sweat covers his forehead in a thin sheen and his dark hair sticks together in clumps. He hasn’t had that dream in a while. The nightmare comes and goes, comes and goes, an ocean of relentless memories beating against him. The sun hangs just below the skyline, dull hues of orange and yellow painting the city, kissing the midnight blue goodbye and gives a silent prayer of thanks. He presses his hands to his eyes rubbing them raw until starbursts cloud his vision. Leaning his weary body over the edge of the bed, he pushes the after-images of the memory back into his subconsciousness yet again, to begin anew until the sun sinks below the horizon and black covers the sky once more.

Routine: the backbone of human existence. Dick begins his as an afterthought, muscle memory already set in motion before his brain can catch up. The uniform fits him like a second skin: first the shirt, then the tie, pull it tight, right under the chin, badge shiny— brass, not a single scratch on it. A gun heavy in his hand. He hates the gun. Hates that  when he busts a particularly gruesome scene like a man hovering over a child with his belt undone, his hand would itch for the metal. An annoying itch, one he can’t scratch. His hand already grabbing cold metal finger on the trigger before his reminds himself the goal is to _not_ use the gun. Muscle memory. 

He’s not one to broadcast his past in acrobatics. However much he omitted from his résumé, being a former circus clown gave him the upper hand easily, and he takes and takes and takes. He's faster than most and more agile. Anyone can try to run away or to fight back but he's stronger and swifter. He uses his body like a weapon, a fury of angles and limbs, and he bears his teeth in satisfaction whenever bones break beneath his grip.

So lost in his thoughts, Dick doesn’t even realize he’s already sitting at his desk steaming coffee cup in hand until the Captain breaks through the cacophony.

“Grayson, you're early.”

“Am I?” He feigns surprise if only to seem more normal. More human. Like someone who sleeps throughout the night and doesn’t have permanent dark circles etched under his eyes.

He glances at the old hand-me-down watch on his wrist. Thirty minutes early. Damn, he thought he'd timed it better. The Captain had been getting on his case more often lately. _You're coming in too early and staying too late_ , he'd say. _You'll burn yourself out like his,_ he'd say.

 _Too late for that,_ he wants to reply. 

But the fire already consumes him. 

Despite it all he persists on. He tells himself it’s for the greater good, a higher cause. What cause he hasn’t discovered yet. Something Big, he’s sure. Something more that to simply relish in the chase, the catch. Something more than justice served and job well done (what justice is there to be had in this backwater city). He feels a blackness tainting his insides but he's doing good, he is good, he can pretend to be good.

These nightmares haunt his waking eyes.

* * *

 

The first call of the day takes him to a murder scene.

“Oh God.”

His partner wrinkles his nose, screwing up his mouth in a grotesque grimace. He looks a sickly pale green like he's ready to upchuck the street dog they'd had for lunch. Dick eyes him, sidestepping just in case. This kid’s just a rookie. No wonder he’s so...green. Training duty had befallen upon Dick. He couldn’t possibly be more dismayed.

 _You'll_ _be good for each other_ , the Captain had said. Looking at the guy, Dick begged to differ. He was just a _rookie_ for God’s sake, a fucking child. This was no place for children.

“Lovers quarrel?” The lead detective asks the medical examiner on scene while the beat cops like Dick and Rookie keep curious eyes away.

A lover’s quarrel: the M.O. for most cases. Homicides were usually caused by either a loss of love or the prospect of diminishing power. After all, love was power and power was the lack of love. Two bodies lay amongst piles of garbage bags in the narrow alleyway, positioned close together, fingers almost brushing—the woman supine, hand outstretched palm up towards; the man’s hand  laying a few inches away. Their heads were turned opposite ways with the woman looking down and the man facing heavenward. He looks at the scene, a loneliness creeping up his spine as he remembers a near forgotten trip to some museum standing in a great room, neck sore from looking up at the massive rendition of The Creation of Adam. Only now he was looking at the destruction of Eve.

“Mm, not sure yet,” the medical examiner grunts. The old man’s knees pop as he stands from his crouched position next to the bodies. “Preliminary findings showed multiple stab wounds to both bodies, although the woman died from asphyxiation. Her stab wounds are post-mortem.”

“What about the guy?”

“Blood loss.”

Rookie moves at his side and Dick catches him pressing a napkin to his mouth.

“You okay?” Dick pats Rookie on the back feeling a little sorry for the guy. 

Rookie nods slowly, unsure eyes watering as he surveys the bodies.

Another day, another death.

And life goes on.

* * *

This is his routine.

Wake up before dawn, before the birds begin their morning symphony. Run anywhere and towards anything, run to forget the dreams, run to reach a new horizon. Get to work too early (he always too fucking early) and banter with the captain who always notices. Dick makes a mental note:  _get to work later tomorrow._ He already knows it's a fools errand. Work through the day catching the criminals. Alternatively, don't catch them and regret and rage and drink and fall. Go to the gym after the work day is done and let the sweat cleanse his skin of all the grime and terror and hate. Walk home in the dead of night when one world goes to sleep and a new one awakens.

This is his routine.

Run.

Get to work too early.

Do the job.

Blood.

Sweat.

The long walk home.

Run.

Too early.

Work.

So much blood.

Home.

Alone.

This is his routine.

* * *

Everyone has a vice. Smoking, drinking, gambling, sex. Dick makes the gym his vice.

Visions of dead bodies blur together behind his bleary eyes as Dick hurls his fists against the worn cracked leather of a punching bag. His parents are among them—snapped necks and distorted limbs—as his fists gain momentum. The faster the images dredge up from the depths of his mind, the harder his hands connect. He swings over and over, harder and harder. The creak of the chain threatening the inevitable collapse from the ceiling. He hits the bag so hard bruises form along the knuckles beneath his fingerless gloves. With each punch a new rush of adrenaline surges forth at the pain. He uses the pain to push the day away, push his sanity to the brink of exhaustion until his arms feel like jelly. 

Some days though he just needs a drink like anybody else.

Nighttime in the city is a marvelous thing. She is alive as Dick leaves the run-down gym freshly showered in search of his favorite bar downtown. Along the busy main street music fills the air from pubs and clubs; high tempo beats, floaty melodies with melancholy words, string guitars and booming bass and banging drums. The different tunes meld and clash together to form a new song and he walks along to the beat of Her.

Laughter fills the air as a door swings open in front of him. He steps away just in time as a rowdy group of young girls emerge from a lively bar. Of course he does this at the same time someone turns the corner and slams into him.

“ _Oof_.”

He stumbles backward a few steps before catching his balance. That’s different; when was the last time he ran into someone that out-solidified him? 

“Oh, I'm so sorry,” a voice says.

And when he looks up, when his eyes meet hers, he is on fire.

She's tall, taller than him by quite a few inches, with dark shimmering skin and a flame burning in her eyes and on her head. He knows without a doubt that she is absolutely the most beautiful woman he will ever meet in his whole life ( _forgive him Mary_ ).

“No, uh, I'm sorry I wasn't paying attention,” he says, a slow smile spreading on his face against his will. Dick doesn’t know what to do with his hands (why doesn’t anyone ever know what to do with their goddamn hands). He rubs his neck with one, the other falling on his hip and he realizes belatedly he looks like a Dad. 

She smiles back, and oh Lord she has dimples on her cheeks. She uses her hand to tuck a loose curl behind her ear and his heart fucking flutters. It's never done that before. He might need to see a doctor (but he doesn't hate the sensation so maybe he’ll just live with it). 

“Were you just leaving?” She gestures to the door behind him where he could have run into a different somebody, could have run into a different fate and he silently thanks God that he just so happened to be on this particular street at just the right time.

“No,” he lies. This definitely is not his favorite bar he's in search of but it _could_ be with proper company, and that’s all the potential he needs to say, “I was just getting some fresh air.”

“So you were leaving but not the bar?” She has a slight accent of some kind and when she tilts her head to the side, small smile crinkling her eyes, he subtly pinches himself to make sure he didn't die earlier in the day during patrol.

“Uh…yeah,” he says slowly doing the math in his head. He’s so bad at math. 

“Then, may I buy you drink?”

“Only if I can buy you one, too,” he grins.

Dick gestures to the door letting her lead the way. The dimly lit bar is loud, a sea of people pressing tightly together in the small amount of space it offered. Dick strains his eyes in the low lighting trying and failing to find an empty seat anywhere. Then a warm hand tugs at his shirt sleeve. He glances down at the hand, cheeks heating up, and before he can waggle his eyebrows she leads him to a secluded corner. He wonders if those bright eyes have magic in them that allows her to find the only open seats. Laughter erupts around them and people speak loudly over each other's conversations in a gladiatorial match. They sit close together, arms brushing just the right amount of flirty and fun to still give ample room to be comfortable.

She leans in to ask “what would you like,” in her velvety voice. 

“Anything,” he says too quickly. 

She turns to him fully eyes narrowed and roaming up and down assessing her subject. Then she orders him a whiskey sour. He laughs, makes a show of mimicking her actions before settling on a Moscow mule. After their drinks are ordered she offers a long slender hand covered in gold bangles and bejeweled rings. 

“I'm Kory,” she says in a low tone just barely audible above all the noise.

“Dick.” He reaches a hand out taking hers and shaking it gently.

“Dick?” She quirks her lip, laughter in her eyes.

“My parents were old fashioned,” he jokes, shrugging off the tease to lean in closer. “ _You’ve_ got an interesting name.”

“So do you,” she grins. "And I think your parents were playing a prank on you."

"Well,  _I'm_ not the one who decided Dick was a good nickname for Richard," he says in defense. “Blame the dickheads back in the 50’s.” _Wait_ , he thinks, then resists the urge to smack himself. 

"No, but you're the one who decided to go by that name," she teases. "Well, mine is a nickname too though.” She leans a fraction of an inch closer and whispers conspiratorially, “Kory is short for Koriand'r."

A surprised bark of laughter erupts from his chest and he grins as he says, " _Corriander_? Like the herb?"

Kory wrinkles her nose at the jab, pushing playfully at his shoulder. “It's spelled differently," she laughs.

And ah, her laugh. Her laugh which sounds like starlight, or at least what he imagines the kind of music stars make. She's bright and effervescent and he can't quite figure out why she stopped to talk to him other than the fact that she felt sorry for nearly bowling him over. So he asks because curiosity never quite killed the cat.

“You can probably get anyone to buy you a drink so why'd you offer to buy me one?”

“Well, you offered me one too,” she smiles and it’s that patient kind of smile like when a toddler asks an inane question and the parent is tickled but wants to treat the child’s concerns seriously.

“Ah. Clever game.” He wags a finger at her as if to say _you’ve got me!_  Boy does she got him. 

“It is not a _game,”_ she says. Kory scrunches up her nose, brows drawing together and a pout on her lips looking downright adorable. Then she smiles that smile that sends his stomach swooping and soaring and says, "anyway, would you like another?”  
  
“What about you?” He answers without answering if only to keep her there just a moment longer and he's smiling like an idiot but he couldn't care less.

She laughs again and he finds that he would very much like to hear it again all night long and into his deepest dreams.

“Hah,” she throws her head back and laughs the short word. “Maybe it is a game then,” she says, a misheveous tint to her lips. “To see who buys who the most drinks.” Kory quirks an eyebrow his way as she brings her near-empty glass to her lips and he thinks by God she has the most perfect eyebrows, the most perfect everything. 

They talk for hours, until the quiet of the morning when the bars begin to close down and sleepy drunks stumble home with warmed blood and flushed faces. Kory is a model he discovers. He thinks it suits her, with her tall broad frame, long dark limbs and hair made of the sun. She has the kind of looks that make people stop in their tracks just to gaze in awe then spend the rest of the day wondering if she was merely a trick of the mind. Because how could anyone that ethereal walk the lowly planes of the earth and not the heavens above. Dick tells her he's a cop, the kind that wears blue. When she asks if he likes being a cop he smiles and tells her it's a rough but fulfilling job. He's become such a good liar. He finds out Kory just moved to Gotham in the summer and so Dick spends time telling her all the good places that are worth seeing. She doesn't talk about where she’s from. Dick doesn't ask. He doesn't talk about where he's from. Kory doesn't ask. 

After the bartend kicks them out Dick walks her home and she stands just close enough to give him a taste of her body heat. _So the flames aren’t just for show,_ he thinks. They are quiet during the walk home, stealing surreptitious glances at each other, exchanging shy smiles, fingers brushing. She is warm and she is near and he wonders if everyone truly does live along a set line, making preconceived decisions until they are led to their destiny. So lost in though he continues to walk past Kory a few steps before he realizes she’s stopped walking. He turns to glance behind him and backtracks the few steps to where Kory stands in front of a small brownstone giggling softly. 

“This is me,” she says, nodding towards the bright red door that paled in comparison to her halo.

He nods, rocks on his heels unsure, fists bunched in his pockets and shoulders haunched up as if he were cold but truthfully he just wasn't sure what to do with his hands (he never knows what to do with his goddamn hands). They ache to reach out, to touch, to hold her. But he doubts himself, thinks maybe this was a one night thing, a whim on her part. Then he thinks maybe he should just take a chance, lean forward and tilt his chin just so to claim that mouth just once. But he doubts himself. 

So instead he just smiles politely murmuring a “ _goodnight_.”

She smiles back and turns to leave and he can't help the rush of disappointment filling his veins. Then she hesitates. He watches as her steps falter as she stops then pauses for a moment to square her shoulders and turn around to face him once more. It’s all the hope he needs. 

“Would you like go out again,” she asks at the same he says, “we should do this again sometime.” 

A wide lopsided grin spreads across his face, the kind that dimples his cheeks and makes him look boyish and young and stupid. She chuckles, glances down at her feet shyly before looking back up and nodding. Kory walks back to him phone in hand and his hands fumble around until he remembers his phone is in the right back pocket. They exchange numbers. She smiles at him and he smiles back both murmuring goodnight a second time. The tension from earlier melts into an ephemeral giddiness. She turns and walks up the steps to the red door, the finality of the click echoing in the softness of the night air. 

Dick spends the whole walk home staring at his phone willing himself not to text yet. _Wait til you get home at least dickwad._  Later when he's home behind closed doors he kicks himself for being such a coward and praises Kory’s bravery. He makes it all of two steps before texting her. She calls him immediately instead of texting back. 

"Hey," she laughs breathily.

Dick smiles into the phone, looks up to the stars. He makes a silent wish for Kory to become his new vice. 

**Author's Note:**

> Mmmmmmm back on my dickkory bullshit! 
> 
> So this is going to be my first 100k fic and uhhh there's gonna be lots of love because i am but a humble fool for love. 
> 
> Updates will be weekly! 
> 
> drop a kudos if you like, comments are even better <3 
> 
> last edited 2/26/19
> 
> tumblr [here.](https://peachbisexual.tumblr.com)


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